


Knight-Errant

by thedevilchicken



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, First Time, Gender Issues, Historical Fantasy, Knights - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Prince Davonin has never met a (wo)man quite like Sir Orin of Westlake.
Relationships: Female Knight Hiding Her Identity/Straight Prince Who Thinks He's Falling In Love With A Man, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68
Collections: Yes Fest 2020





	Knight-Errant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BetweenStarshineAndClay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenStarshineAndClay/gifts).



They met at the tournament that Davonin's father held for his twenty-second birthday. 

Davonin would honestly rather have been fighting than spectating, but his father has always had a strange idea of what he might enjoy; watching other men fight was supposed to please him as much as it was meant to please the people, because of course King Ellin never misses an opportunity to woo the crowd with games. He's a popular king and Davonin's learned from him. One day he'll make a popular king, too, but by the gods he'll let anyone fight who might want to. 

So, they met at the tournament that Davonin wasn't permitted to enter, but Sir Orin of Westlake certainly could. He didn't look like much, Davonin thought at the time: he was tall and rough and wiry, clean-shaven, with his dark hair worn in the western manner, which was to say it hung in a long, thick braid down the length of his back that he tucked into his armour till the fighting was done. There was grey at his temples when his helm was removed and he wore his armour easily, as if it weighed almost nothing at all. Davonin knew from experience that although mage-wrought armour could be lighter than convention, it still had considerable weight.

His armour was, perhaps, the only remarkable thing about him: the breastplate was etched all over in a swirl like the flow of water, likely enchanted like all the best pieces were. When the rain began to come down lightly, and the sun shone through it, the river on Sir Orin's chest seemed to flow as naturally as any real one might. Davonin heard people in the lists wondering aloud if that might have been the reason that Sir Orin won the day's division for sword over every other man of noble name in Evergard, but Davonin knew better. He'd had the best teachers in the land, and a few who'd come from elsewhere, and he knew true skill when he saw it. Sir Orin must have had an excellent teacher. More than that, he must have practiced long and hard. More again, he must have had experience.

"Well fought today, Sir," Davonin told him, that night at the feast while the hosts and guests mingled. Others wished to speak with Davonin but no one had rushed to speak with Orin; he was a mercenary, they said, masterless, roaming, recently returned from overseas. But the armour he'd worn didn't seem to suit a mercenary, Davonin thought; of course, as heir to the throne of Evergard, he couldn't say he'd met many mercenaries himself. Generals in their fine armour, yes. Ambassadors in their fine doublets, yes. Mercenaries, no.

"Thank you," Orin replied, his voice a strange rasp that Davonin supposed the scar that slashed across his neck explained. He leaned there against the stone wall of the castle's great hall and he looked at Davonin with his cup in one hand, steady and sure, with storm-grey eyes. He didn't look like very much up close, either, Davonin thought, with his thin face and sharp nose and eyes just a hair too close together, and his age that must have been at least a little north of thirty. He stood a little taller than Davonin himself, though a fraction slimmer through his shoulders, and he stood up just as straight. His long, dark braid hung over one shoulder and his grey gaze flickered over the other guests, then settled back on Davonin. Many men had looked at him, of course, in his twenty-two years, and Sir Orin looked like any number of knights who frequented competitions: less without their armour than while in it. He couldn't say why this man of all men made his chest feel quite so tight.

Rapidly, however, it became apparent that Sir Orin had nothing else to say, though whether that was due to his rather obvious scar or to his general disposition was impossible to say. Davonin had known a few men of a similarly taciturn persuasion though he's never been one of them himself; he was able to force a little further conversation by sheer force of will, or perhaps force of title, watching Orin as he drank his wine and said as little as was possible. And, in the end, when conversation waned like the wine remaining in their cups, what Davonin told Sir Orin was: "You know, I'd like to fight you one day." 

"Then hold another tournament," Sir Orin said, bluntly. And when Davonin opened his mouth to make his response, Orin raised one hand and said, "If you'll excuse me..." He bowed his head in something like farewell though perhaps not deference, then he walked away. Davonin definitely hadn't excused him, but he was so surprised that he didn't even think to call him back. Perhaps it was that surprise that kept him in Davonin's thoughts long after the evening had ended.

Four months later, for Davonin's younger sister's birthday, he persuaded his father to hold another tournament there in Evergard - not that the king required so very much in the way of persuasion. Again, Davonin was forced to sit by and watch from the royal box in his fine robes and prince's circlet set with emeralds there awkwardly against his close-cropped auburn hair. beside his younger sister as knight after knight vowed to win their bout for her. Again, Sir Orin won the sword, but he'd made no promise to win for the princess; all he'd done was tilt his chin and glance at Davonin before he donned his helm, though he supposed he might have been mistaken as regarded that glance's direction. And again, at the feast that evening, Sir Orin attended though he seemed out of place. 

"You didn't fight," Orin said when Davonin approached him, once his conversations born of duty were complete. He was standing there at the edge of the festivities, leaning with his shoulder at a tall stone pillar as the music played and couples danced. It wasn't difficult to see he had no interest in being there, but his duty as a competitor compelled his presence all the same. 

"Did that disappoint you?" Davonin replied.

Orin raised his cup, almost like a toast. "I'd say it disappointed you more than it did me," he said. And Davonin couldn't say that he was wrong because he'd thought about exactly what that fight might be since the night they'd met, and often. Of course, he couldn't say very much at all: Sir Orin finished off his wine and left before many more words had the chance to pass their lips.

Three months after that, they celebrated the anniversary of his father's coronation with yet another tournament that Davonin was not allowed to fight in. Sir Orin won the sword, as news said had become his custom everywhere he went throughout the kingdom. He won wearing his armour etched like water that Davonin sometimes conjured in his mind when he went to bed at night. Sometimes, he imagined touching it, like he might long to touch a maiden's face.

"You didn't fight," Orin said, at the feast, when Davonin approached, and there was something about the way he stood, the look on his face, the twist of his mouth, that Davonin had not been able to put out of his mind any more than he had his strange armour. 

"I wanted to," he replied. "You fight extremely well. I'd very much like to test myself against you." And when Sir Orin laughed and set one hand on Davonin's shoulder with something almost like familiarity, when he squeezed there, Davonin's chest felt bewilderingly tight again. He could feel the warmth of palm and fingers through the fabric of his tunic as if they flowed down from that point to pool low down in his gut. He looked up into Orin's pale, sharp face. He felt his face flush slightly.

"One day, perhaps," Sir Orin said. "Just not today." Then, once he'd raised his cup to him, he turned and walked away. And Davonin, in his rooms that night, in his bed, found himself slipping one hand down between his thighs to stroke himself; when he did, he was surprised to find that it was the thought of Sir Orin's light eyes and sword-callused hands that brought him to his climax. He was surprised it was Sir Orin's thin mouth and the scar at his throat and the swirls that covered his armour. Surprised, yes, but not _very_ surprised. 

They met again a handful of times over the year or two or three that followed: sometimes the royal family of Evergard travelled to visit other cities in their realm where games were hosted in their honour, or to other countries where the same was true; Davonin sought Sir Orin out when he was able, and thought of him at night when he was not. He thought of the way he fought with a sword in his hand, and the rain on his armour, and the way his light eyes seemed to make him feel as if no one else's presence mattered. He thought about the rasp of his voice and what the scar might feel like underneath his fingers. He'd never wanted a man before. He found where Sir Orin was concerned, the thought didn't worry him as much as it might. 

And now, here they are, in Sir Orin's tent after he's won the sword again. Orin looks at him as his squire frowns and hovers close at hand. He looks at him as if he wonders why it's only now that he's realised he doesn't have to wait until the feast to make another halting try at conversation. He looks at him as if he's surprised he's there, but not _very_ surprised.

"Do I need him?" Orin asks, pointing bluntly at the squire; Davonin shakes his head and, against his very nature, doesn't say a word. The squire leaves quickly and Davonin, just as quickly, takes his place. 

Removing Orin's armour is just like he'd imagined it would be. It comes off with relative ease, unbuckling, unclasping, piece by piece under Davonin's eager hands. He feels its pattern with his fingertips as Sir Orin stands and watches him, dark hair damp with sweat and flecked with blood. He removes that armour, slowly, fingers finding the metal has been warmed by the heat of Sir Orin's tall frame and that, perhaps, is not what he imagined; the discovery of it, the warmth of its owner that clings to it, is perhaps what makes his cock throb and stiffen there inside his breeches and colour rush into his cheeks. He sets it aside just like his own squire might, feeling its weight as he does so as if that weight might ground him and restrain his heart from beating quite so wildly, but it does not. And, once he's done, once Orin's armour's stacked aside, he stands back and he looks at him. _Him_. As Orin unwinds the strip of linen wrapped tight around his chest, which Davonin assumed was binding up some injury or other, he understands for the first time that it's not _him_ at all. 

Orin raises her eyebrows, hands on hips. She's tall and slim, all wiry muscle, small breasts, and an air to her of something still as confident as ever that makes Davonin bite down at his lower lip. She's made a name for herself as a swordsman, a mercenary, a knight-errant, and Davonin wonders how many people even know what must be her closely-guarded secret, and why it is that she's decided she should share it with him now. He wonders what it means that he is neither disappointed nor elated that _he_ is truly _she_ , only pleased to find Sir Orin wants him in the same way Davonin has wanted all these years. He wonders if the scar was made on purpose, and how it is she's held up this pretense, if magic was involved just as it must be with her armour or if people merely see in Orin what they might expect to. Questions, though, he thinks will wait. There are more pressing matters here.

When Orin bends over the table where her armour's stacked, Davonin understands that; he follows her there, this indomitable woman, and he runs his hands over her thighs, over her hips, up to frame her waist as he presses up against her. Inside his breeches, he's already hard and it takes virtually no time at all to free himself except the time it takes seems to him to be interminable. He strokes himself as she looks over her shoulder at him, cheeks faintly flushed, just as his are, light eyes seeming almost dark. Then he rubs the tip of his cock between her thighs. He rubs it up against her lips, hot and wet and waiting. And then, in one swift thrust, he's in her just as surely as a blade. She gasps, even that sound a kind of rasping, as she braces herself against the tabletop to take him all the deeper. All he can do to keep himself from coming then and there is clench his jaw and grasp her hips, and even then it doesn't take him long. He thrusts deep as she pushes back to meet him with near-jarring force, skin on overheated skin, and it doesn't take long. Given the way she clenches around the length of him in turn, given the way that they're both breathless, he doesn't think she minds. 

They sit together after, once she's thrown on a tunic to cover back up and found them a jar of wine to share. They sit shoulder to shoulder on her makeshift bed as Davonin's pulse begins to steady and he understands for now, they need no words. 

She'll be leaving soon, just another day or two, a week at most; all of this is temporary. But there'll be another tournament, Davonin thinks. There's always another tournament. All of this might indeed be temporary, but that doesn't mean that they can't make the most of it every time she's there.

And honestly, all that this has meant is that now he wants to fight her more than ever. Honestly, he's very near convinced she'll win. And if she does, he knows that he won't mind at all.


End file.
